


One thing I could save from the fire

by orphan_account



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Antwerp, Fluff, Getting Closure, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, the goldfinch as a metaphor for theo's heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 09:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Sometimes the past can have too much power over us, and if we let it, it starts to affect our present and future too. Sometimes the best way to move forward is to look the past in the eyes and say goodbye to it properly.”One year after everything happens, Theo and Boris go to see the Goldfinch again.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 10
Kudos: 131





	One thing I could save from the fire

Spring in New York was especially rainy this year, and cold enough on some days that I could easily forget it was April. It had always been a difficult month for me, the same time of year as when my mother died. Although it had gotten easier with time and distractions, there were still many days when I struggled to complete my tasks and when a stray thought could launch me back into my memories. 

It used to be that on these days I would call up Jerome and spend the next several hours too high to think about it, but a lot had changed in the year since Amsterdam. 

…

The first few days after everything happened-- the conflict over the painting, Boris’s disappearance, my overdose, the painting’s return-- were vague in my memories. Between sleep, illness, and the massive effort it had taken to process everything, I was hardly in a state to do more than sit on Boris’s couch and watch old movies.

Boris turned out to be a surprisingly helpful nurse, despite his near-complete disregard for the finer points of health when we were children. When I passed out on his couch I woke to find warm chicken soup, which we sipped together as we watched TV. He even found me some medicine for whatever fever I had gotten.

The two days I spent at his apartment were dull compared to the panicked motion of the rest of my trip, but I welcomed it, and I felt that Boris did too. We slept late, ate takeout, and smoked Boris’s weed in front of the TV before falling asleep on the couch. When we finally said goodbye at the airport, I was sad to go.

…

Hobie had been concerned and angry, and rightfully so, when I finally got back from Amsterdam. (It turns out that disappearing from my engagement party, missing Christmas, and selling two million dollars worth of forgeries can shake things up a bit.) But despite everything I had done, Hobie seemed to understand and forgive, and once again I felt how immensely lucky I was to have him.

I never told him about the man I killed. Old habits die hard, and keeping things like that to myself was one of the oldest habits I had. I did, however, come clean about nearly everything else. The forgeries, The Goldfinch, the hotel room overdose, even all that had happened with Kitsey.

The latter caused him pain on my behalf, I could tell. When I asked him what I should do, he gave me a sympathetic look. “That has to be between the two of you,” he said. “I can help you, but only you can decide what comes next.”

What came next turned out to be travel-- it seemed that by tracking down all of Hobie’s changelings, I could begin to repair my mistakes and make a fresh start. I also appreciated the distance from Kitsey and her family as we decided what to do. And in between the flights, with the guiding support of Hobie, I had even begun to get sober. So this was how I spent the year after the painting’s recovery: trying to fix my mistakes and move forward as best I could.

It was March when I came downstairs to a newspaper lying conspicuously open in front of my regular place at the table. I was about to push it to the side when I noticed it-- an image of the Goldfinch and a title: after a year, it would finally be displayed again.

“Hobie, what’s this?” I asked.

“I was bringing in the paper and it caught my eye. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not.”

Hobie set down his breakfast and looked at me. “Theo, I’ve been thinking that maybe you should go see it. It might be good for you, and God knows you deserve a break.”

 _The Goldfinch, Fabritius’s masterpiece that was presumed lost for over a decade, will be displayed again in the Mauritshuis museum in the Netherlands after extensive conservation efforts._ The picture in the newspaper was black and white, a poor rendition, but nonetheless my eyes were drawn to it. 

“Obviously it’s up to you,” he continued, “but that kind of closure might do you good. I know how much the painting means to you.”

“Thank you, Hobie,” I said. “I’ll think it over.”

We were silent for a moment as we sipped our coffee and I scanned the newspaper, and then Hobie awkwardly cleared his throat. He had the same look in his eye that he got whenever he was about to address a heavy subject.

“Theo, I can understand how you feel. For years after Welty died, I didn’t set foot in an art museum if I could help it. I know it’s been the same for you. But sometimes the past can have too much power over us, and if we let it, it starts to affect our present and future too. Sometimes the best way to move forward is to look the past in the eyes and say goodbye to it properly.” 

Despite the sadness in Hobie’s voice, he was speaking wholeheartedly, and I could see that he was right. Maybe he even spoke from experience.

“Okay,” I said. “I think I’ll go then. And Hobie? Thank you, again.”

…

I had, in my notebook, a list of phone numbers for the important people in my life. The people who, above anyone else, I did not want to lose. One of the names and numbers belonged to Boris.

After the terrible days I spent alone in my Amsterdam hotel room with no way to reach him, I forced Boris to give me some way of contacting him. Although time zones and busy lives meant that we had no regular correspondence, we kept in touch. Sometimes I would get a rambling message at 4 am about whatever intoxicated thoughts he was having, and I made sure to let him know if my job ever took me near him. A few times we had even met up and gotten drinks together, when our busy lives lined up.

I dialed his number and listened to it ring, hoping that it wasn't the middle of the night in whatever country he was in.

After a moment, he answered in a bleary voice. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's Theo."

"Ah, Potter! You called! But why so early? Is barely six in the morning."

 _Oops._ “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s later here.”

There was a muffled yawn across the line. “So, what have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. Working in the shop, going to auctions, a bit of travel. The usual. And you?”

“Oh, you know. The usual.” Boris chuckled, and even without seeing his face, I could imagine his expression. The amused glint he got in his eye any time I asked him about his job.

“But,” he continued, “you did not call me to talk about your auctions, did you?”

“No. Actually, I was going to ask you when you’ll be around the Netherlands next.”

“The Netherlands? Why, are you planning a trip?”

Suddenly I wished we could have this conversation face to face. “They’re going to display the Goldfinch again. Hobie told me. I think I should see it.” 

“Ah. Do you want me to go with you?”

Boris, bless him, seemed to understand my unspoken request without me having to elaborate. I exhaled. “Yes, I’d like that. As long as you don’t mind?”

“No, it would be a good trip! I would like to see the little bird again, too.”

“Thank you. Really.”

“Is nothing! So, when are you planning to go? How's April? I can be in Antwerp next month.”

…

One thing about my continuous business travel was that the airports never got any less unbearable for me. After all the packing (frustrating), security (stressful), and waiting (often for much longer than my boarding pass had indicated), I was rewarded with several hours spent confined in a tiny area with people who didn’t want to be there any more than I did. To my great delight, the flight to Belgium had enough empty seats that I could spread out more, but my relief was squashed again when I saw that the couple in front of me had a baby.

Still, I managed to fall asleep somewhere over the Atlantic and awoke to a slightly disgruntled flight attendant asking me to put my seat upright for the descent, please. Getting through customs and immigration was as tedious as ever, but I had found that it was considerably less stressful when one wasn’t worried about airport security finding illicit drugs or suspiciously large sums of cash in one’s luggage. At last, I escaped the airport and emerged into the cool Brussels air.

Boris would meet me at the airport, but it suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea where he would be waiting. After wandering along the building and searching in vain for a map, I decided to call him. My phone was on its third ring when someone tapped my shoulder and I turned.

Black curls, bright teeth.

As I faced Boris, his grin broke into a full smile. "Potter!" he crowed. "Is good to see you!"

I felt a smile break onto my face too, and I hugged him.

He had grown his hair out a bit, but he still looked the same as ever, with sharp black eyes, expensive-looking shoes, and a nice coat. I could see a new tattoo on the inside of his wrist, though the coat sleeve covered too much for me to be sure of what it was. He smelled of smoke and expensive cologne, and I felt some of the tension leave me.

He pulled back and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “How was the flight?”

“Not good,” I said, laughing. “There was a baby.”

“Ah, terrible! It should be a crime, to take a baby on a crowded plane!”

It was about 9 pm, and we took the train from the airport to Antwerp. (Boris’s driver was taking the day off, he explained to me on the way.) The apartment was the same as I remembered. There was an artificial tidiness that came from being vacant most of the year, but Boris had still left his mark on the place with an assortment of books, records, and cigarette packs. It was a refined, more grown-up version of his bedroom back in Vegas, and right away I felt a sense of comfortable familiarity.

Together we unfolded the pull-out sofa and playfully bickered while we struggled to put on the fitted sheet. 

("I told you, Potter! Wrong side!"

"Well maybe if your couch was shaped like a normal fucking piece of furniture…"

"It complements the room! You should know this, with all your fancy chairs and things.") 

Neither of us had eaten, so we made grilled cheese and ate it, sitting on the counters again like we were children. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, awoke to Boris dropping a pan in the kitchen and swearing creatively, and a few hours later we left for the museum.

…

When we left the train, I was struck by the beauty of The Hague. Beautiful old buildings towered over canals, and the city was framed by picturesque sky. Presently, we arrived at the museum.

It was undeniably beautiful, but as soon as we stepped inside the crowded lobby, alarms seemed to go off inside my head. I had thought that it would be different, that I would be different, but everything reminded me of the Met, and suddenly I was guarded and defensive.

"Boris," I muttered, "maybe we…" But when I turned to find him he had been swallowed by the crowd, which began to close in on me too.

Everything reminded me of that day so many years ago. The crowd pressed in on me until I felt trapped, and I realized how easy it would be for another bomb to go off, and maybe I wouldn't be so lucky to escape this time. I shouldn't have come, this was a mistake...

My head was spinning. I felt dizzy, like the floor was falling and the blurs of people around me were closing in too tightly, the toneless chatter of the museum grew to a roar, my ears were ringing and my coat suddenly felt too hot, too heavy, smothering… I gasped a breath but it was like my lungs were filled with dust, my vision was swimming and when I turned around to find the door to try to reach the air the mass of people had closed around it and I was falling back into the crowd…

A hand grabbed my arm and pulled me along, through the coats and dark faces. I stumbled out of the suffocating noise and choking air until I felt the cool solidness of a wall against my back and a hand cupping my face. I blinked-- there were suddenly tears blurring my vision-- and breathed in the strong, familiar scent of cigarette smoke. Boris brushed the hair out of my face and placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.

“Breathe, Potter. Are you okay?”

I bit my lip and nodded, feeling more like a child than I had in a very long time.

Boris put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me into a kind of half-hug, and I drew a few shaky breaths. He was not quite as skinny now as he had been the last time we were this close.

"Breathe, will be okay…”

Gradually the ringing in my ears subsided. I could hear the noises from the crowd again and realized with a start, how Boris and I must look to them. I shook him off of me and ran a hand through my hair.

Boris stepped back a bit. “Okay, Potter? Do you usually do this when you go to museums?”

"I'm fine," I said. A bit too shortly. Boris looked at me skeptically.

The truth was, I had avoided museums for most of my life and when I had to go to one, there were generally enough narcotics in my system to keep it from being a problem. I told him this.

“Do you want to keep going?”

Did I? Was it better to let that part of my past go? As much as I wanted to see the painting again, part of me worried that seeing it displayed and yet out of reach would be too painful. A reminder of everything that I had lost. Maybe it would be better to simply go back to Boris’s place and avoid talking about it, then leave on the next flight home and never confront these things again.

And yet…

I did want to see it. I had promised Hobie I would. And something told me that the painting would be worth it.

I nodded, and Boris stepped to my side to let me lead the way.

As we made our way through the museum, I was still on edge. I think Boris could tell, because I noticed him standing closer than usual and subtly steering me away from the worst of the crowds. But despite my discomfort, it was impossible not to appreciate the beauty of the art. We passed room after gorgeous room of Dutch masterpieces, some that I had read about in college and many more I was seeing for the first time. The splendor of the place amazed me: each room was almost as beautiful as the art itself, as if the whole museum was designed specially to be a temple of the aesthetic. 

Even the furniture, though it was not the main feature, drew me in. I spent perhaps longer than I should have admiring an elegant 17th century table, before Boris cleared his throat politely and I remembered that we were here for something else.

We kept going through the halls. Past Vermeer, Rubens, Rembrandt. _Girl With A Pearl Earring, The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicholaes Tulp…_

The Anatomy Lesson.

I must have worn a pained expression on my face, because Boris nudged me and furrowed his brow.

"Everything alright?"

It had been years since I last saw this painting. The memories I had attached to it were conflicting: sometimes I thought of my mother, how she would point to the details in her textbook and tell me fondly about her college art courses. But inextricably linked to those happier memories was the shadow of her death, and the haunting knowledge that this was the last painting she had ever seen. And I felt a morbid fascination, a grotesque beauty.

"Potter?"

"Yes, I'm fine." I shook my head to clear it. "It's just… My mother loved this painting. She was going back to look at it when the bomb went off. I had forgotten it was here."

Boris stepped forward to look at the painting more closely. "Who made it?" 

“Rembrandt.”

“It’s beautiful. Or, well,” he shrugged, “not beautiful. But something.”

“Striking,” I said. “It’s because of the light. It draws your eye to the corpse, makes everything look just a bit off. The proportions and colors are all wrong, so you can’t help but look.”

“You know a lot about this painting?”

“My mother did.” I smiled sadly. “She would have loved to be here. And to explain all of the little details to you.”

We were silent for a moment, and then Boris put his hand on my shoulder.

“Okay,” I said, “lets keep going.”

The room with The Goldfinch was in the middle of a corridor, unmarked by anything except a small sign, in Dutch and English, explaining that the paintings in the room were recently recovered and were being shown to the public for the first time in decades. It was surprisingly un-grandiose, but I supposed that to many, it was no more or less significant than the dozens of other masterpieces. The painting’s magnitude to me came from the memories that I had given to it.

We stopped by the threshold. I looked to Boris, he nodded at me, and we stepped towards the painting. 

I fell silent. It was as if the Goldfinch was the center of a gravitational field. My thoughts had orbited it for over a decade, spinning around it, never able to escape its pull. This close, words failed. Any sentence I could form was pulled from my mouth before it could be spoken. We were lost in the incredible weight-- of the painting, yes, but also of everything that had happened over the years. Again I felt the immense scale of the little bird’s history and the tiny part I had played in it. For all the years the goldfinch had seen, there was a brief window of time when it had been mine.

I stepped closer to Boris, and he put an arm around my waist. In another place I might have worried about the people behind us in the gallery who were surely staring, but here, bathed in the light of the painting, I couldn't bring myself to care. His touch was grounding, and I was taken back to the timeless and hazy moments in Las Vegas. A comforting arm around me as I woke from a nightmare, a faint smell of cigarettes to lull me back to sleep.

Boris leaned closer and mumbled in my ear. "It looks better in the museum than your old pillowcase, no?"

I gave a short, breathless laugh, more to release the emotions that now overwhelmed me than for humor.

He was right; for as much as I longed to have the Goldfinch to myself one more time, I felt instinctively that this was where it was meant to be. It had been agonizing to think that the painting was gone forever, that nobody else could ever be touched by it again. "It deserves to be seen."

"Yes, should not be shut up in a briefcase by people who do not care, like Martin! I think the world would be worse off, just a bit, if the bird was lost. It was good of us, to return it.”

“I didn’t know it was so important to you, too.”

“No?” Boris let out an incredulous laugh and tapped the side of my head. “Not after all the work we did to get it back? Of course it was important to me. Because it was important to you, and I lost it, and I would not lose it again.” 

"I… wow." Part of me was caught off guard by his words and the devotion in his voice: I hadn't realized he cared that much.

"I wouldn't do that much for just anyone, or just any old painting. This one was special." He lowered his voice even more, in mock-seriousness. "But the money definitely helped too."

"Shut up," I said, vaguely aware of how red my face had gotten.

Boris smiled and turned back to the painting, and I followed. He had managed to diffuse the tension that I had felt. The air was returning to the room and the Goldfinch no longer felt larger than life. Rather, it was still the same painting that it had been when I kept it behind my bed: a little ray of light contained in wood and paint, a treasure that held generations of memories and love. Safe for the next children, and their children, to admire and love too.

…

When we got back to Boris's apartment, it was too late for dinner but to early to go to bed, so we laid across the sofa bed and watched a movie. It was some mediocre comedy from a few years ago and neither of us was very interested in it, but neither of us was in the mood for anything more exciting.

Boris got a bowl of chips from the kitchen, and a beer for himself. (He raised his eyebrows when I declined his offer for a drink, but didn’t ask for an explanation.)

After the movie ended, I was too tired to get up and turn off the TV, and Boris made no move to do it either. At some point we had shifted closer to each other, and now he was resting his head on my shoulder, curls soft against my cheek. We sat in companionable silence for a few moments, and then I spoke, quietly.

"Thank you again. For coming with me today."

"Of course. Am glad I got to see it."

"This last year has been crazy."

Boris chuckled and raised his bottle. "I'll drink to that."

We were silent for a minute before he spoke again. "You know, Potter, it was hard letting the painting go. I mean, I let it out for drug collateral sometimes, because I had to. But I felt bad about it, all the time, to give away your painting. It was like part of you that was not mine to give, but I did. And I am still so sorry for that. I still do not know why I took it. I meant to give it back, and when that was impossible I wanted to keep it safe. To take care of it for you. But then I needed money, and I thought you knew it was gone and hated me for it, so,” he shrugged. “I did what I had to. But I should have taken care of it and I failed you.”

I could never be angry at Boris for long. Even when we were kids and he would do something that was unforgivable in my petty teenage mind, sooner or later he would elbow me and mutter some joke under his breath, and all would be forgotten in an instant. 

"I was so mad at you, at first," I said. "But it's okay now. Seriously. We got the painting back and it's where it belongs."

He smiled and leaned his head on my shoulder again with his hair tickling my ear. The TV changed to its screensaver and I watched the little logo bounce from corner to corner for a few minutes.

"Kitsey and I called off our engagement."

"Mmh," Boris commented. "Was it you or her who ended it?"

"We both decided it was for the best. Her family was disappointed, but neither of us liked lying to them. Besides, we still meet up for lunch sometimes."

The Barbours were surprisingly good sports about the whole thing, considering all the time they had spent planning the wedding. Still, I sometimes felt the soft sting of Mrs. Barbour's disappointment whenever an awkward silence fell between me and Kitsey during lunch.

Beside me, Boris snorted. "Cannot walk away, Potter, can you?"

"I don't know," I said softly. "I walked away from you."

"When we were kids? No. I left you too, I left you to go to New York alone. But look! We found each other again! And everything is good now! We are richer, we have good lives!"

“Ever the optimist,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Back in Las Vegas, I didn’t know if I would see you again. If you would want to see me. But now…” he trailed off. “It’s good to see you.”

And it was, he was right. We had slipped back into the old familiarity, a stability that I welcomed. As different as everything was, this was the constant that I wanted the most.

"I missed you."

Boris set his empty beer bottle down and looked at me. This close, his eyes were unfocused, but I could read the sincerity in them. "I missed you too, Potter."

And then, so softly I might have imagined it, he pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth.

"I… Boris…"

"Theo."

And then he grinned smugly, almost like a challenge, and I felt a sudden, ridiculous, inexplicable, unthinkable urge to kiss him. So I did. 

In a millisecond, a sudden wave of doubt flickered through my brain-- _Is this okay? Maybe he didn't mean it like that. What does this mean about me? Did I just ruin everything? Do I_ like _him?_ But then Boris was kissing me back and I forgot how to think about anything else.

…

Sunlight through the window woke me and bathed the room in a yellow glow. For a moment I lay there with my eyes closed, appreciating the softness and warmth of the bed. The warmth, it seemed, came from its other occupant, who had tangled his legs with mine in the night and draped an arm loosely around my waist. 

As I lay there and listened to Boris's rhythmic breathing, I tried to process what had happened. We had kissed, a lot, and fallen asleep together. And Boris was still here, even though he could have gone back to his own (more comfortable) bed and pretended that nothing had happened. And how did I feel? Part of me was flooded with vague feelings of anxiety that I couldn't really put a name to. Part of me felt peaceful in a way I hadn't felt in years. But the strongest voice was asking me if I had messed up something I couldn't fix, and if I could live with myself if I ruined this relationship too.

"You're staring."

Boris's whisper startled me out of my thoughts and I realized that I had been looking at his profile, the light on his hair. And that he was definitely awake.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, I..."

"Potter?"

"I shouldn't have-- I'm sorry…" I tried to untangle myself and move back, and he lifted his head.

"What's wrong?"

"I didn't…"

Understanding flashed across his face, and he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pulling me back against his chest.

"Potter. Hey. Shh, is okay. The world will not end because you woke up with a boy."

I felt him run a hand through my hair, soft and comforting, and subconsciously I relaxed into the touch. He stayed there, wrapped around me, until my breathing evened out again and I lifted my head to speak.

"Are we… Boris… Are we okay? Is this… I don't want to mess it up again."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Then we are good. Because I am good and you are good, and the bed is warm and I missed you."

He tilted his head to look at me, and when I nodded, he sighed and rolled closer. After a minute I leaned into his side too and closed my eyes. We laid there like we had when we were children, chest against chest, my face tucked into the crook of his neck. 

As I listened to his breathing I thought about what Kitsey and Mrs. Barbour would think, and Hobie and Pippa. And where would we go from here, did we step too far? But mostly I thought about how Boris was absently tracing patterns on my shoulder blades, and how I had slept more soundly last night than I had in the last year.

_Maybe this could be something good._

"Boris?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

He laughed softly. "What for?"

"It's just, I didn't say it enough. So thank you."

He kissed my jaw in response, then my mouth. We stayed there as the sun climbed and the city traffic grew louder outside the window.

…

Two days later, Gyuri drove us to the airport. Two boarding passes, two suitcases in the trunk, but we wouldn't be catching the same flight. I was returning to New York and Boris was off to Italy. ("Business to do. You know how it is, Potter.")

And I wasn't quite sure how to feel about this. On one hand, I knew he couldn't come with me. It would be horribly awkward for me to bring a chaotic crime boss to crash Hobie's house with no warning. But on the other hand, I was aware that there was no certainty that I would see Boris again any time soon.

Before we stepped inside the building, I caught his arm and pulled him into a tight hug. His wool coat scratched my cheek but I leaned into it and let his cologne flood my senses. I could feel his rings as he tangled his hand in my hair.

"Take care in Italy. Don't do anything stupid."

"Who, me?"

I snorted a laugh and moved back just far enough to kiss him.

"I have things for you," I said when we parted. "Some records and a book, at my apartment. Come get them from me sometime."

He dropped his jaw in comically feigned surprise. "You should have said so earlier! Now I really have reason to go!"

"What, I wasn't a good enough reason?"

"Not as good as presents," he said, grinning.

I grinned too, and ducked closer to rest my chin against his shoulder. "Asshole."

It was chilly outside, but I didn't want to go inside and face the hectic airport just yet. It seemed that this would be my last chance to stand here uninterrupted and say goodbye.

"You will come to visit, right?" I asked. Then quieter, "Don't disappear."

Boris hugged me again, burying his face against my head, and when he spoke, I was surprised to hear that his voice was soft with emotion.

"I promise."

…

Around nine hours later, I landed in the airport, and an hour after that I was in a taxi home. I turned off airplane mode on my cell phone and waited for the time zone to adjust and my missed calls to pop up.

My phone buzzed three times, with three messages from Boris.

_have a good flight_

_say hi to popchik for me_

And then a screenshot of the airline's website, a listing of flights to New York.

_when should i book for?_

I smiled to myself in the cab and typed in a date. My phone buzzed again.

_see you then :)_

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from Richard Siken's poem "Saying Your Names"


End file.
